


A Shield Against the Dark

by FantasiaWandering



Series: Under Shield [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Big Brother Sans, Epilogue, Family, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Goat Mom Is Best Mom, Headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:04:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasiaWandering/pseuds/FantasiaWandering
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been ten years since the barrier fell, but some hurts take a long time to heal, and some truths are buried deep. Even as you help your adoptive mother uncover truth of her own heart (really, nobody dresses that nicely for a dinner with "just-a-friend"), your surrogate brother has started to realize an unsettling truth about yours, and comes in search of answers. And tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shield Against the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This game took hold of my brain and wouldn't let go. This contains major spoilers for the end of a True Pacifist run, but something a certain child said to Frisk at the end raised a lot of questions, and the idea wouldn't let go until I wrote it all down.
> 
> It hops around chronologically, much like Sans, but there is a [timeline](http://fantasiawandering.tumblr.com/post/136020214644/under-shield-timeline), which is somewhat up to date. I still recommend reading them in (more or less) the order that I wrote them.

There are days when you are grateful for the car that the embassy provides, but today is not one of those days. Something about the bright carpet of autumn leaves stirs a sense of nostalgia within you, and you opt to walk home instead. You have no particular route in mind, but your feet choose your path out of long habit, and you smile at the familiar sight of the school. It’s been a few years since you stopped attending classes, and it’s far too late for any of the teachers to still be there, not even the hard-working headmistress, but a sense of warmth and welcome hangs over the place still, and you cannot help the smile that it calls up in answer. The gardens are looking particularly lovely these days, even in the twilight of autumn. Small wonder there are children playing in the schoolyard even at this late hour.

“You wanna know a secret?”

The children are well-occupied, so intent on building their fortress of leaves that they don’t even notice you, the grown-up on the other side of the fence. Or near enough to grown-up as makes little difference to an eight-year-old.

The other doesn’t even glance up from his work, studiously jamming sticks into the ground to support the wall of foliage on his side of the fort. “Sure.”

The secret-keeper’s voice drops low, but you’ve grown used to whispers in the dark, and you have no difficulty making out the words. “There’s a monster under my bed.”

At that, the other finally stops, looking up at his friend with wide eyes. “For real?” The first child nods. The second continues to stare for a moment, weighing the truth behind his friend’s words. “Dude. That is so… so….” A look of undisguised longing darts across his face. “So _cool!_ What’s it do?”

“It leaves me pie!”

You shake your head, your smile growing as you move on, and you tug your coat closed against the rising wind. Your scarf, though lovingly handmade, has a grossly uneven knit, and despite the extreme length of the thing, it still lets in the cold. You’d never think of replacing it, though. Ever since a certain someone was prescribed knitting as an outlet for her aggression, you’ve gotten a “bestie scarf” for your birthday every year, and you wouldn’t trade them for the world. Much to the pointed dismay of the embassy staff.

As you cross the empty street, you glance back at the two children. They have abandoned their construction project in favour of rolling in the surrounding piles of leaves, which are a little too conveniently situated to be entirely random. There was a time in your childhood when such a sight would be unthinkable; ciity children simply were not left alone to play by themselves. But that was before humanity learned that there were monsters hiding in the shadows. Unseen. Unheard. Unnoticed. Until some human dared to lay a hand on an innocent child. Now, children played as they would, their parents secure in the knowledge that no harm would come to them while monsters were in the world.

Not long after you leave the school behind, you begin the climb up the hill toward home. The house is the one real indulgence you have been able to tolerate in your life, though the decision to buy it was not yours alone. It sits proudly atop the hill, a bizarre cross between a palace and a cozy cottage, all bricks and leaded glass and ivy-covered walls. The gardens had been the real selling point, though. Large yards are a rarity in the city, but living in a house that was not surrounded by gardens had been unthinkable. There’s a high wall around them, but the gate is never closed. You’re fairly certain it rusted open years ago, even before the small magnolia grew up around the bars. By unspoken understanding, the children of the neighbourhood know they are always free to explore the little tangled wild that surrounds the big house on the hill, and that the candy and baked goods they inexplicably discover beneath toadstoools and within spiders’ webs are safe, and free to any who find them. You don’t see anyone as you make your way up the flagstone path that weaves between the trees, but you can hear soft giggles from the twilight shadows.

Ignoring them, you duck inside the house and sigh as you lean against the door. The same sense of welcome that hangs about the school is present here, but a million times stronger, and no matter what is or is not in the oven, the air always smells faintly of butterscotch and cinnamon. Quickly slipping upstairs to your room, you change out of your work clothes into more comfortable attire, and the same nostalgia that has surrounded you all afternoon guides you to choose a worn, striped sweater from the back of a drawer. You found it at a thrift store during a break from a particularly taxing summit a few years ago, and it’s so big that your hands disappear into the sleeves, but you always find it comforting when the heavy knit settles across your shoulders.

Feeling much more yourself, you make your way toward the kitchen, and smile at the steaming mug of tea that waits for you on the table. Wrapping your hands around the mug, you lean against the counter and drink deeply, letting the warmth fill you. The tea isn’t quite as good as Dad’s, which means it stops just shy of amazing, but Mom’s been letting him spend enough time here in the last few years that she’s picked up a few of his tricks along the way.

“Oh, you are home!” The smell of spices intensifies, along with a touch of clover and honey, and an unidentifiable wildness, as Toriel breezes into the room. “And you found your tea; most clever of you. How is it?”

“It’s great,” you answer, and close your eyes as she hugs you. Toriel’s hugs have never lost the ability to make you feel like something treasured and cherished. Not even when she’s clearly distracted. Following her gaze to the cupboard where she keeps her baking supplies, it’s all you can do to keep from giggling. Instead, you try for casual. “So I walked past the school today. Heard some kids talking.”

She freezes for the briefest of moments before busying herself with tidying an already-immaculate spice rack. “Oh?”

“Yeah, she loves the pie.”

Toriel turns, beaming. “Oh, good! I knew she liked chocolate, but that is not really the thing before bed, and I was hoping that the maple--” She froze, and cleared her throat. “I mean, what pie?”

“Ha!” You laugh, boosting yourself up to perch on the counter. “You are so busted!”

“Oh, dear.” Twisting a tea towel between her hands, she looks up at you through her long lashes. It’s quite a feat, given that she still towers over you. “Do you think anyone at the embassy knows?”

“Mom, we promised that monsters wouldn’t go into kids’ rooms without permission any more. I know, I know, nobody’s going to do anything, but it makes the parents feel better.” You smile, and take another sip of your tea. “So if you’re going to keep at it, you’ve got to be stealthier about it.”

With a sigh of relief, Toriel drops a kiss onto the top of your head. “I know it is against the rules, but sometimes those poor children just need to know that someone _loves_ them. Someone other than their parents, I mean. Especially when they’ve had a bad day.”

“Scraped knee?” you ask.

“Lost tooth,” she answers absently, wiping up a spilled drop of tea before returning the tea towel to the rack. “Poor dear is afraid it won’t grow back, and the tooth fairy is so busy these days that she wasn’t able to get to that one right away.”

“Poor tooth fairy. I’ll see if I can get her a raise, or at least a higher exchange rate.” You tug out your phone and send a quick e-mail to your secretary. “Well. Now that that’s settled.” Tilting your head, you kick your heels against the cupboards as you smile sweetly at your mother. “You look nice. What’s the occasion?”

Blushing slightly even through her fur, Toriel looks down and smooths a hand over the fabric of her dress. “Oh, this old thing. I really don’t…”

Grinning, you reach out to tweak the floating fabric of the gossamer scarf around her neck into a pretty fall over her shoulder. “Come on, you’re not fooling anyone. It’s a date, isn’t it?”

“Gracious no!” Toriel places a hand over her heart. “I am far too old for such things, my child. It is not a date.” She reaches up to scratch behind a long, silky ear. “It is merely two exes meeting up for dinner. And a movie. And possibly dancing.”

It’s a struggle, but you manage to suppress your squeak of delight. It’s been a long, _long_ road, but over the past ten years, you’ve watched the former rulers of the Underground grow closer again. At first, Toriel wouldn’t even let Asgore near the house, until you expressed a mournful wish that someone might do _something_ with the wild gardens that defeated your every attempt at pruning. Then, gradually, she let him closer, until it became the norm rather than the exception to ask him to stay for tea. By that time, your adoption was official, and he was coming as much to spend time with you as with Toriel; that, you suspect, did more to soften her toward him than a river of tea. Sometimes, she even permitted you to stay the night at his house. But forgiveness can be a long road, and though you forgave him long ago, you never knew the six other children who came before you. You never mended their hurts, and tucked them in, and baked them pie, and watched them walk away from your attempts to keep them safe. You never loved them, so you don’t want to rush it. Still… “Good. You two crazy kids have fun.”

Toriel’s blush deepens, but she still manages a look of concern. “You will be all right on your own tonight?”

“Mom, I can handle one evening on my own, I promise.” With a sly smile, you run your finger around the edge of your mug. “Maybe even all night.”

“Katherine Anne!” Toriel gasps. “Where did you learn such scandalous things?”

You give a snort of laughter, knowing that Toriel is well aware of what Undyne and Alphys get up to. Undyne still has a habit of shouting into the phone when she gets excited, and Toriel has been privy to more than a few post-date gossip sessions as you sat there holding the phone out as far as your arm could reach in a vain attempt to save your ears. She’s had a lot of practice in pretending to ignore them. But as amused as you are at her reaction, something of your feelings at the use of your birth name must have shown on your face. Her expression softening, Toriel moves toward you, her big hand smoothing your tousled hair. “Frisk, dear, I am sorry. I forget sometimes.”

“It’s okay,” you answer, and mean it, leaning into the comfort of her maternal touch.

There’s a hint of sadness to the smile she gives you as she cups the side of your face, her big brown eyes gazing deep into yours. Once, the expression “looking into your soul” had been a poetic metaphor for a look like that. These days, you know better. But you can see something of what she’s thinking too, as she sighs softly. “You are growing up so fast, my precious child. How could I have missed it? It is silly for me to worry when you are late coming home...”

You reach up, covering as much of her hand as you can. “Mom, it’s been ten years. You should know by now that when I leave home, I’m coming back.” You offer her a little grin. “At least, for as long as you want me to.”

“I shall always want you to,” Toriel answers gently. Cupping your face between her hands, she presses a gentle kiss on your brow. You close your eyes, the love in that touch reaching deep into your soul, wrapping around your heart and calling forth older, deeper echoes from a distant time and place. Then, she lets you go, and you’re back in the warmth of the kitchen.

“Now then,” she says, pulling away. “There is pasta warming in the oven--” She doesn’t miss the look of alarm you cast her, and waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, no, sweetheart, do not worry. I made it.” She smiles at your relieved sigh. “And there is pie in the fridge. I may be home after you are asleep, but you need not fear. I will be home eventually.” The unspoken ‘alone’ hangs in the air between you.

“Seriously, Mom,” you say, your fingers knitting together in your lap. “This house is pretty big for just the two of us.”

At that, Toriel gives a decidedly un-regal snort. “Sweet child. It is very rarely ‘just the two of us.’”

You make a face, acknowledging the truth in that. Though they all technically have homes elsewhere, there’s a room in the house for each of your friends. Due to the house’s size and its annoying tendency to shift the upper levels around when it gets bored (she’s never admitted to it, but you still blame a certain saurian scientist for that), you’re still not entirely sure you’ve found all the rooms, but you know they’re there. In theory, some of your friends could be here right now, for all that you can be sure, though out of courtesy to Toriel, at least, they almost always make their presence known when they arrive. You’re about as certain as you can be that the two of you really are alone in the big house right now. And sometimes, the house was just too big for two people. Sometimes, it practically pleaded for a big heart to take up some of the empty space.  “I love Dad, too,” you say softly. “I wouldn’t mind if he… if you two…. you know…”

Affection and regret war in Toriel’s eyes as she reads the meaning in your stumbling words. “One step at a time, my dear,” Toriel says, but she reaches out to hug you again, and you breathe in the sweet smell of her fur, wondering why everyone can’t just be happy.

“Frisk, dear?”

“Yeah, mom?”

“Do you know the intolerable man who delivers almonds for my marzipan cookies?”

Your brow furrows, and you raise your head from her shoulder, unsure where this is coming from. It’s been years since anyone who interacted with your family has been anything other than lovely to them -- it’s hard not to fall in love once you get to know them -- and you’re fairly sure that particular delivery guy was cooing over pictures of his kitten with Toriel just last week. “What about him?”

“He drives me nuts.”

It takes you a moment. You almost miss it, but the trembling of her lip gives it away, and you groan as Toriel bursts out laughing. “Mom, that was so bad!”

“So was the pea that rolled under the fridge last week,” she counters. “It was an escapea!”

“Mom, noooo!” You reach for her, trying to cover her mouth, but she’s moving now, her eyes dancing as she watches your reaction with delight. “I can’t take it!”

“Neither could that old colander I had to throw away the other day. It just couldn’t take the strain.”

“Stooop!” You’ve practically scaled her like a tree, clinging to her shoulders as you reach forward in a fruitless attempt to silence her, but she’s having none of it. With a deft twist, the world flips, and you’re in her arms, nearly helpless with laughter. Desperately, you point at the clock. “What about your dinner?”

Toriel looks at the clock in dismay. “Oh, goodness, no, not that!” She sets you on your feet and wags a finger at you. “You should never have a clock for dinner, foolish child.” She grins. “It’s very time-consuming.”

You can’t take any more, collapsing into her arms as the tears of laughter pour down your face. You should have known better. If there’s one thing Toriel hates more than rudeness or dirty socks, it’s melancholy, and she’s very, very good at getting rid of it.

“You should go,” you murmur into her shoulder as you fight back the giggles. “Don’t want to be late for your date.”

“It is not a date,” she corrects primly, but she’s blushing again as she reluctantly lets you go. “Do not stay up too late.”

You say nothing as you shake your head fondly. You’ve been a legal adult for a year now, and in many ways you had to grow up a very long time before that, but you’re pretty sure you could be a grandmother and Toriel will still be mothering you. “Mom?” you call out, and she pauses to look back at you, one hand on the door. “You look beautiful.”

She blinks, once, and gives a little cough, and more pink shows through the fine white fur on her cheeks. “Thank you, Frisk, dear.” She pulls open the door, slipping the beaded strap of a sparkling clutch bag over her shoulder. You got it for her when you were ten, and it has “World’s Best Mom” spelled out in purple sequins on the side, and she wears it to every formal embassy event, royal proclamation, and special occasion she attends, despite your every attempt to buy her something more fashionable. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

When she’s gone, you slip down from the counter and pull a bowl from the cupboard. You can smell the pasta now, and your stomach is eagerly reminding you that it’s been some time since you last ate. But as you set the bowl on the counter, you feel it. Like a soft tug in the space behind your sternum. You grew accustomed to it ages ago, and it’s been years since it’s actually startled you, but you don’t think you’re ever going to be truly used to it, either. You don’t bother turning around as you ask, “Should I get another bowl?”

“ **nah, I’m good, buddy. don’t let me stop you, though.** ”

You pull another cup down from the cupboard -- it’s a plain white mug, sporting the letter “I” followed by a picture of a moustache, and then the words “you a question…” And in tiny type underneath: “but I’ll shave it for later.” There are many such mugs in your cupboard, but this is one of his favourites. When he drinks from it, it looks like he’s sporting the moustache. He appreciates the irony. Pulling the knitted elephant tea-cosy off the teapot, you refill your own cup and pour the second. Carefully balancing them and the warm plate of spaghetti in your arms, you make your way to the table.

Sans doesn’t offer to help, but he rarely does. You’d be more annoyed, but you know from unfortunate experience that if you did happen to fall, somehow, miraculously, none of the scalding tea will touch you, and the pasta will land on the table, no matter where you fall from. Sans’ thoughtful gaze remains fixed on you, and his sneakered feet swing casually a foot from the floor. When you’re close enough, he pulls his bony hands from his pockets to relieve you of your burdens, and you take the seat opposite him.

He grins as he sees what mug you’ve brought him, but that’s hardly unexpected. Whether he’s happy, or upset, or furious, he’s always grinning. Over the years, you’ve learned to read the nuances around his eyes. Tonight, however, you can’t place his look at all.

“ **so. tori looks smokin’ tonight. must be a hot date**.”

You make a face around the spaghetti you’ve crammed into your mouth -- you’re starving, and it’s heavenly -- and you swallow quickly. “Dude, that’s my _mom_ you’re talking about. And that was even worse than one of hers.”

“ **well, they can’t all be winners**.” He shifts in his seat, tilting his head to watch you eat. “ **slow down there, kiddo. it’s not a race. this time, anyway. all bets are off when undyne’s around and sees a challenge -- except then all bets are on**.” He snickers. “ **mostly on her.** ”

“I want to get it down in case Papyrus drops by,” you say around your current mouthful. “Last time he caught me eating Mom’s pasta, he got all hurt that I was forced to eat someone else’s food and insisted on making more to prove that he hadn’t forgotten me.” It was months ago, but the memory still sends a visceral shudder throughout your body.

“ **oh, my bro won’t be dropping by tonight.** ”

The fork freezes halfway to your mouth, and you set it down slowly. A moment ago, you were basking in the wonder of your mother’s cooking. Now, you can’t taste anything, your entire focus riveted on Sans. “Really?” You wrap your hands around your mug. They’ve gone suddenly cold. “You mean I’ve got you all to myself? To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“ **funny thing.** ” He sips his tea, making a contented noise before setting it back on the table. “ **i was at the library today doing some research--** ”

You can’t stifle your incredulous noise, and he looks at you with exaggerated affront. “ **what? i research!** ” But he can’t sustain the act, and winks at you. “ **okay, maybe i was supposed to be helping papyrus hand out the new batch of flyers for the gym--** ” You give a quiet “ha!” and he rolls what passes for his eyes at you. “ **buuuuut while i was looking up maps to help me figure out some new shortcuts around town -- for flyer distribution, right? -- i came across something real interesting about mount ebbot.** ”

Your mouth has gone suddenly dry, but you can’t bring yourself to raise your mug. You can’t even loosen your fingers from the warm ceramic. “Oh?”

“ **yeah. like i said, funny thing. apparently there’s this story -- pretty well known ‘round these parts from before the barrier fell, if the book was right -- that says that anyone who goes up the mountain never comes down again. so my question is, old buddy, old pal, if everyone knew that...** ” He winks at you. Normally, he winks with his left eye. Rarely, like now, he winks with his right, and his left eye remains fixed on you for much, much longer. It also makes you really, really uneasy when he does it, though you’ve never been able to say why. “ **...if everyone knew that, why would anyone go up there in the first place?** ” He takes another sip of tea and shrugs, setting the mug down between you. “ **it’s a doozy. can’t wrap my head around it. but you’re smart. what do you think, kid?** ”

Drawing a long, deep breath, you pry your fingers off the mug. “I think… I think….” It’s hard to swallow around the lump in your throat. “A... a friend asked me something like that a long time ago. I didn’t really have an answer then.”

“ **and now?** ”

Though your knees are trembling, you push yourself up from the table and take your cup to the sink. The tea’s gone cold. Dumping out the dregs, you refill the kettle and set it on the stove. Not trusting your shaking hands with the rudimentary magic your mother has been teaching you, you opt for the seldom-used burner instead.

“You know that people aren’t really like monsters. That some of us… aren’t very nice?”

It’s a rhetorical question. You’re well aware that you both know the answer to that one.

Not everyone welcomed the changes after the barrier fell and monsters poured into the world. As the sole human in their midst, the child ambassador between humans and monsters, you’d been a very visible target to those who wanted things to go back the way they had been.

There’d been one attempt on your life. Just one. Sans had been with you at the time. You hadn’t even recognized it for what it was, then; you didn’t put the pieces together until you were going through the earliest embassy records last year. Sans showed no indication that he was upset. He’d just winked at the man who’d come after you, a long, slow wink with his right eye, and patted you on the head, and told you to run along and find Toriel. You left, and the last thing you saw was your erstwhile attacker looking utterly bewildered where he stood, fenced in by a ring of bones, as the tiny skeleton before him lobbed pun after terrible pun his way.

When they finally found what was left of the man more than a week later, it was quietly dealt with, and no-one had ever attempted to hurt you again.

At least, not physically.

You glance over your shoulder when he doesn’t respond. He’s watching you with both eyes now. His expression is still distant, and you can see nothing within the shadows of his eyes, but  your knees stop trembling and you lean against the counter. “Sometimes, bad things happen. Sometimes kids get left all alone. And sometimes, people… they aren’t very nice about it. It hurts. It leaves you… empty inside. Sometimes, you don’t come back from that. You get lost, and just want it all to go away, forever. Or sometimes, instead of letting it eat you, you reach for something, _anything_ , to make that awful feeling go away.”

Most of your life before the Underground seems like a distant dream, but dreams have a way of getting under your skin. Especially the bad ones. You still have those, with some regularity. Toriel is always there to comfort you on the nights you wake up crying. But Sans is the one who shows up when the dreams leave you silent and shaking, unable to make a sound. Both of them, in their own way, chase the last wisps of dreams away before they can linger long enough to become real, and you try to draw on that comfort as you reach for them now.

“I think…” You turn, busying your hands with rinsing the mug. The silence is growing heavy, and it makes it hard to gather your thoughts into a coherent whole. “I think for the lost ones, going up the mountain might seem like the answer to the question they were too afraid to ask.”

“ **and for the other kind of child?** ”

Setting your clean mug on the counter, you dry your hands on your jeans. Toriel hates the habit, but she’s never been able to break you of it. “People can be cruel when they’re hurting. If someone lashes out and tells an empty child that no one wants them, so they may as well go up the mountain, the child can either let those words break them, or take them as a challenge. That sense of challenge, or adventure, or spite, might be what they need to fill the empty places. Even a child who knows better than to go up the mountain might convince themselves it’s an adventure, just for the sake of feeling an emotion that doesn’t leave them raw and hollowed-out inside.”

He nods slowly at that, and you’re fairly sure you’re confirming something he already knew. “ **so what do the empty children do when they fall?** ”

“It depends on the child,” you answer. “Some of them… some of them might have a lot in common with each other. More than anyone knows. The way they look… the way they dress…. the names their parents gave them… but in the end, each one has to make their own choice. They can either fill that empty place by making others hurt as much as they do. Or they can fill it with something else.”

“ **hmm.** ” He scratches his head thoughtfully. You’re not fooled for a second. He seems like he’s musing, but there’s no uncertainty in him whatsoever. He knows exactly where he’s going with this. But you’ll play along. Because it’s Sans. “ **must take something pretty special to fill an empty place that big.** ”

“Yeah. It really does.” The singing of the kettle summons you to the stove, and you rescue it quickly, dumping its contents into the waiting teapot. Before you put the elephant cozy back on the pot, you turn it so that Sans can clearly see the heart painted lovingly on the side. The matching mug you painted was lost years ago to some emphatic gesture of Undyne’s, but Asgore’s teapot held more than enough sentiment to make up for it. It was the first gift of his that Toriel hadn’t pitched back out the door.

The sun has long since set, and there are fireflies dancing in the darkness outside the window above the sink. At least, you think they’re fireflies. Anything more is usually polite enough to introduce itself. “I don’t know what makes a person choose one way or the other,” you say quietly. “All I know is that the choices I made weren’t the same as… as....” Your throat is going dry again, and you choke on the words. “They were always _mine_. I chose to keep the nickname my dad gave me when I wouldn’t stop going through his pockets looking for candy.” You don’t mean Asgore, but Sans knows that, too.

“ **good call.** ” His voice is gentler now, more filled with its usual teasing notes and less with that deep, cold something that raises the hair on your arms. “ **‘cause ‘her royal highness katherine anne of the house of dreemurr’ is pretty hard to fit on an envelope.** ”

With a wry grin, you grab one of your letters from the embassy off the top of the mail basket by the kitchen door and toss it to him. He stares at it for a moment before giving an incredulous whistle. You’re never sure how he manages that without lips.

“ **huh. i’d have bet good money they couldn’t do it.** ”

“It’s only for work. Here I’m just...me.” Your smile fades a little, and you glance back at the dancing lights outside the window. “When you guys asked me what my real name was all those years ago, I was telling the truth. Katie… that name hasn’t sat right in a long time. Katie fell, but I don’t think she ever got back up again. I don’t know. Maybe… maybe there’s a parallel world out there somewhere where I kept that name. Made the wrong choices. But that’s not the path I chose to take.”

“ **i guess there’s only one question left, then,** ” he says, and the next words that he speaks fall into a sudden, yawning silence.

“W h y   d o   y o u   g o   b a c k   t o   t h e   m o u n t a i n   e v er y   y e a r ?”

Of course he knows about your annual pilgrimage on the eve of Barrier Fall. For a laid-back, lazy slacker, he misses nothing. But you only smile, and trace your finger along the design on the teapot. “Because I know what it’s like to feel empty and alone. And I know how much it changes things when someone or something reminds you that you are loved.” The ghost of a memory rises to greet you. White fur pressed against your cheek, and the worn wool of a sweater beneath your shaking hands. “Besides. Someone has to take care of the flowers.”

You don’t hear him move. You never do. But his arms are suddenly around your waist, locked tight, and it never ceases to amaze you how someone who is literally nothing but bones can give hugs that are so comforting. So _real._

Being the ambassador for two species has never been easy. Even though no one had threatened you physically after that first time, there were many who had not been kind to a child who was fighting to convince everyone that if they would only be _nice_ to each other, everything would be okay. Your family had handled it in different ways. Toriel and Asgore had reconciled -- officially at least -- and united to give you the legitimacy and protection of a title with power behind it. Papyrus and Undyne usually just dragged the perpetrator off to sit them down to a nice spaghetti dinner while they delivered a stern and enthusiastic lecture about your many excellent and outstanding qualities. Alphys often tagged along. With charts. The cleanup after one of those lectures could last for days.

And Sans… Sans would always, inevitably, be the one to find that lost child weeping quietly in the corner of an empty embassy room, hoping no one would notice you  as you struggled just to breathe. And then he would draw you into his arms, and hold you, and tell you terrible jokes until you were laughing too hard to cry any more.

Of all the members of your adoptive family, he is the one you understand the least. And the most. Of all of them, he is the only one who seems to have any knowledge of those strange flashes you get sometimes. Flashes of a life that both is yours, and isn’t. A life that terrifies you and leaves you shaking, sick with fear and disgust.

Out of all of them, he is the one you know will never let you go down that dark path you see in your nightmares, no matter what he has to do to prevent it. And that thought is the one that gives you the most comfort on those nights you awaken from the terrible dreams that seem all too real.

But there is one thing about your strange surrogate big brother that you have never, ever questioned for a single instant since the Barrier fell. No matter what else he did, no matter what else you felt, you never for a moment doubted that he loves you. Deeply and absolutely. Enough to fill the empty places a thousand times over.

Maybe that’s why he worries so much. Betrayal from someone you love and adore must be a hundred thousand times worse than from someone you never really cared about.

All the more reason to make sure it never, ever comes to pass.

“ **tea’s ready,** ” he says against your hip, making you smile again. You were exactly the same height once, but ten years is a lot of time for a human child to grow, particularly when fuelled by the culinary creations of the Queen of All Monsters, and though you’ll never be mistaken for anything approaching ‘tall’, you’re still a heck of a lot bigger than Sans. Papyrus is exceedingly proud of you for winning this particular challenge, and goes on about it at great length, much to Sans’ annoyance. “ **wanna watch terrible old movies and make fun of the monsters?** ”

“Heck, yes.” You reach for the tea, and glance down at him. “Think we can prank call Papyrus while we’re at it?”

Your answer is a grin so bright it’s almost blinding.

* * *

There’s a small hole in the window now. Toriel’s going to be furious, but Sans isn’t particularly concerned. The prank calls had been going great until you’d wound Papyrus up enough that Undyne had grabbed Papyrus’ phone and threatened to have Alphys trace your location. Sans threw the phone hard enough that you’d been able to watch the glowing screen arc into the night for a good minute before it had finally disappeared. In apology for the cold breeze the hole let in, Sans dug out a blanket from somewhere -- maybe his room, which is one of the ones you’ve never been able to find -- and it’s surprisingly warm as you curl beneath it, resting your head on his shoulder.

The movies are still playing, but you’ve long since lost track of them, your mind drifting on the edges of sleep.  It was an old tradition between the two of you, falling asleep in front of the TV to Toriel’s great exasperation -- she always maintained that one should fall asleep to a _book_ and not that infernal contraption, but books were more work than Sans usually wanted to bother with. He claimed he needed to save his energy for Papyrus' bedtime story. And though every single time, you could have sworn that Sans was the one to drift off first, you inevitably woke, very briefly, to find him carrying you to bed. Even now, when you were twice his size, he’d find a way to manage it if Toriel didn’t come home first. Though you hope, for once, that she doesn’t. You can see how she looks at Asgore every time they’re together, and it’s about time that Mom’s heart finally realizes what everyone else in the family already knows. Well, everyone except Dad. Sometimes he can be just as clueless as Toriel.

“ **hey, frisk?** ”

“Mmmm?” Thought is harder now, but you fight for it. There’s something in his tone that tells you this is a different kind of question than the previous “is that monster made of fried eggs?” or “how many sweaters gave up their lives to make that bigfoot?”

“ **if you could go back… reset everything and do it all again... would you?** ”

Blinking, you struggle as far back from the brink as you can. “You mean… falling into the Underground?” He nods, and you think on it hard before you attempt an answer. “I guess… maybe. Sometimes. It was hard. And amazing. And awful. But different from the way things are now. Now, I get so _tired_ of everything, and I miss… I miss back then. Meeting you. Everything. It was hard but… but simpler.” You’re fading fast, and you sigh gently. “I don’t think I’d do anything different though, if I could do it all over. Figure things out faster, maybe. Be better, quicker. But I wouldn’t really change anything. As awful as it got at the end… the ends….” You frown. The amendment makes no sense, but it feels more _right_ somehow. “...I like being here with you. With everyone. I wouldn’t change that for anything, no matter how many times I got to try again.”

Yawning, you burrow deeper against Sans’ shoulder, the fabric of his jacket surprisingly soft and warm. His arm around your shoulders pulls you just a little bit closer, and something huge and vast and incorporeal rolls through you, frighteningly powerful but indescribably gentle, bearing you away into sleep. You’re not afraid to dream tonight. Not with him nearby. Just before you submerge completely, you realize what’s been nagging at you.

That sense of warmth, and love, and welcome that permeates the house and the school… it’s around Sans, too. No matter where you are, no matter what you’re doing, it’s always, always there. A little less soft and sweet than Toriel’s, perhaps, but every bit as strong.

Faintly, through the dark, your own words drift back to you.

_I know what it’s like to feel empty and alone. And I know how much it changes things when someone or something reminds you that you are loved._

Smiling, you close your eyes and let yourself drift into the dark, murmuring as you go. “...love you too, big bro.”

“ **...nerd.** ” The exasperated, affectionate response follows you, a shield against the dark, and when the dreams find you, they are filled with laughter and light.

 


End file.
